“Imp of hell!” screamed Mary; “what tale is this you bring to torture me?  Have I not enough already?  Tell me it is a lie, or I will have your miserable little tongue torn out by the root.”

“It is no lie, princess, but an awful truth, and a frightful shame to you.”

I was determined to tell her all and let her see herself as she was.

She gave a hysterical laugh, and throwing up her hands, with her accustomed little gesture, fell upon the bed in utter abandonment, shaking as with a spasm.  She did not weep; she could not; she was past that now.  Jane went over to the bed and tried to soothe her.

In a moment Mary sprang to her feet, exclaiming:  “Master Brandon condemned to death and you and I here talking and moaning and weeping?  Come, come, we will go to the king at once.  We will start to walk, Edwin—­I must be doing something—­and Jane can follow with the horses and overtake us.  No; I will not dress; just as I am; this will do.  Bring me a hat, Jane; any one, any one.”  While putting on hat and gloves she continued:  “I will see the king at once and tell him all! all!  I will do anything; I will marry that old king of France, or forty kings, or forty devils; it’s all one to me; anything! anything! to save him.  Oh! to think that he has been in that dungeon all this time.”  And the tears came unheeded in a deluge.

She was under such headway, and spoke and moved so rapidly, that I could not stop her until she was nearly ready to go.  Then I held her by the arm while I said: 

“It is not necessary now; you are too late.”

A look of horror came into her face, and I continued slowly:  “I procured Brandon’s release nearly a week ago; I did what you should have done, and he is now at our rooms in Greenwich.”

Mary looked at me a moment, and, turning pale, pressed her hands to her heart and leaned against the door frame.

After a short silence she said:  “Edwin Caskoden—­fool!  Why could you not have told me that at first?  I thought my brain would burn and my heart burst.”

“I should have told you had you given me time.  As to the pain it gave you”—­this was the last charge of my large magazine of indignation—­“I care very little about that.  You deserve it.  I do not know what explanation you have to offer, but nothing can excuse you.  An explanation, however good, would have been little comfort to you had Brandon failed you in Billingsgate that night.”

She had fallen into a chair by this time and sat in reverie, staring at nothing.  Then the tears came again, but more softly.

“You are right; nothing can excuse me.  I am the most selfish, ungrateful, guilty creature ever born.  A whole month in that dungeon!” And she covered her drooping face with her hands.

“Go away for awhile, Edwin, and then return; we shall want to see you again,” said Jane.

Upon my return Mary was more composed.  Jane had dressed her hair, and she was sitting on the bed in her riding habit, hat in hand.  Her fingers were nervously toying at the ribbons and her eyes cast down.